Flower Moon

Full moon diary #5

happy beltane

I can’t write in this mess. I can barely even think. The moon has been so clear this past week but everything else, I must say, has not. Or has it? I don’t really know what that means. It seems I am always grasping for some clarity even though clarity is always right there, like the daytime moon hanging low over the hills behind Streatham, so big and so close you could reach out and stroke it.

The moon cast silver shadows on Mary’s shed on Wednesday night, on Thursday it followed the P13 from Peckham and winked at Donicia and I through the mucky windows. It offered, once more, the deep dull ache of menstruation, and who was I to say no?

I’m searching for meaning in all of it. Like the handsome man picking blossoms off the floor for his girl, and how I keep seeing little white butterflies everywhere I go. All this searching, all this grasping; I think I’m getting tired. The tree outside my window is in full bloom, the moon is bright and full and the sky, the infinite sky, is clear. Perhaps, then, so am I.